Pasts of the Nations
by SilverWritesThings
Summary: Where did the nations come from? Were they simply hatched from the ground? Did they come into existence through a magic process? Or were they once humans, sent to be nations as a way of purgatory for a premature death? This is the past of the Nations, from the time when they weren't nations, but humans.
1. England

**Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be the broke person I am.**

 **Reader Caution** **: The following may contain triggering elements. This is the only warning for the entire story.**

 **Chapter One: England**

Arthur exhaled with a gentle smile as he ingested the pills. It might have been one too many, but surely he would be fine, he'd been taking these for several months. A faint tinkling sound from the corner of the living room caught his attention. "Ah, Flying Mint Bunny!" The green creature fluttered her wings, smiling happily. "Hi Arthur!" She flew a few circles around his head. "I'm so glad to see you, these last few days have been crazy." Arthur laughed happily, closing his eyes. He felt really tired... Maybe a quick nap.

"Come on, we can talk upstairs." With a tired smile, the Englishman climbed the stairs to his room. He leaned slightly on the wall as he got closer and closer to the door. It was just a couple more steps... Right? Why did the distance seem to be getting larger...? "Are you okay, Arthur?" Arthur smiled at his- not imaginary, _thank you very much-_ friend. "Oh, don't worry Minty, I'm fine. Just a little tired." He borderline collapsed on to his bed, not even fully on it. The flying bunny landed on his bedside table. "Arthur! Are you sure you're okay?" Arthur shook his head feebly. What he had taken... It had obviously been an overdose.

"G-Goodbye, Minty..." Arthur found it more and more difficult to keep his eyes open. A heavy exhale, and they closed as he felt his consciousness drifting away, farther out of his grasp. One last, frantic inhale, and Arthur Kirkland's eyes would never open again.

It would take three missed calls from his older brothers, six weeks with no one seeing so much as a flash of blonde hair behind closed curtains before anyone realized what happened.

 **Arthur/England:** Drug addict. Died of an overdose of hallucinogenic drugs.

This explains his 'Imaginary Friends.'


	2. America

**Chapter Two: America**

Alfred frowned as he looked in the mirror, examining himself closely. His stomach protruded so far. So very very far. He wouldn't eat tonight. No. Eating would end in more of this accursed weight gain. He couldn't eat. If he ate, the fat would stick out so much more. So much more...

If he was too fat, he'd never get a girlfriend. He'd be sad, alone. Which would lead to depression, which lead to sickness, which would lead to death. No. He couldn't eat... Unless he wanted to die sad, alone, fat, by himself, he mustn't eat. These were the rules society imposed on him; these were the rules he would follow. But perhaps just one cracker would be okay...?

Alfred nibbled on the saltine crackers that he found in the cabinet. All of a sudden, he felt sick. He had broken the rule. The rule he had set for himself. Rushing towards the bathroom, Alfred hunched over the toilet. Semi-digested crackers and stomach fluids fell into the water below as the American hurled. At the sight and smell, the muscles around his stomach contracted once more, spewing what little he had eaten into the toilet. Pale, sweaty, and panting, Alfred pulled himself up, off of the rim of the toilet that had been digging painfully into his neck. He slumped against the side of the bathtub, all energy spent. He felt so tired... Maybe he was sick...

A nap sounded good. Just a short nap. Maybe he'd feel better when he woke up. Yeah... This headache would be gone when he woke up. He'd be able to stand when he woke up. Everything would be fine when he woke up. Just a short nap... Alfred let his head drop against the cold surface of the tub. It was smooth, cold, soothing. His eyes fluttered shut gently. Never to open again.

Monday afternoon, two days after Alfred's passing, his parents came home. The funeral was held, the teenage body was buried. No one questioned what had happened, chalking it all up to a twisted type of suicide, even if that wasn't what happened at all.

 **America/Alfred:** A regular teenager, died of Anorexia Nervosa.  
This explains his love of fatty foods.

((Short A/N: I'm sorry if I got this chapter wrong, I was going off what I learned from Wikipedia and a medical website for eating disorders.))


	3. Apologies!

Sorry for anyone who thought this was an update, but I've only just gotten around to this.

The laptop I usually write on, my mom's, had an accident involving my little sister and a glass of milk, and the keyboard has a new hit-and-miss policy for a bunch of the keys. I'm writing this from the public library, but I can only check out computers for an hour a day. My laptop is in the shop getting fixed, but until then, none of my stories are going to be getting any updates. I'm writing when I can, but I can't really accomplish much.

I know a lot of you guys probably don't appreciate excuses, but this is where the extended absence- even by my standards- is coming from. Sorry.

I'm also performing a mass rewrite of some of my stories that when I went back to read some things, I wasn't really proud of my writing. I plan to fix a bunch of stupid errors, with grammar, spelling, run-on sentences, and just little things (and the plot, on some of them) that I think could have been written better.


End file.
